Flood Abatement Read online

  Chapter 43

  At seven the next morning Bernie stood in the kitchen drinking orange juice and enjoying a great view of smog wrapped LA when the phone rang. It was Ryan. Bernie coughed his OJ on the kitchen floor.

  “You okay?” Ryan asked.

  “Sure, just can’t breathe and swallow at the same time.” The danger in what he and Rhonda did began to take hold of him.

  “Yeah, know exactly what you mean.” He sounded drunk. “I need a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Two guys are gonna stop by the club and pickup a package. Could you go there and make sure they get it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Rhonda has keys.” Then he told Bernie where to find the box. “They’ll be there at six. Make sure they get it.”

  “No problem.”

  “Hey, you okay? You sound different.”

  Crap. “Oh, yeah, hangover, little too much tequila last night.”

  “Know how that goes. Drink lots of water. Anyway, I’m trusting you now. It’s important that you put it in their hands.”

  Bernie returned to the bedroom in a daze. Ryan must know he’d slept with Rhonda. He must have heard the fear in Bernie’s voice. Odd. Fear, but no doubt or shame.

  The room smelled like it was freshly painted with lust. Rhonda laid on her right side in the crumpled sheets of his bed, her smooth back and taught thigh exposed. “Who was that?” she asked without opening an eye.

  He dropped his shorts and spooned up behind her. “Salesman,” he replied not wanting to break the mood.

  She shifted to bring them closer together. He slipped inside her.

  “Oh, yes, mmm,” she sighed. She moved her hips and sucked in a breath. Satisfied with the fit, she began a slow rotation of her hips. She reached her arm over her shoulder and pulled his head into her neck. “Do me good, Bernie.”

  He kissed her as the pleasant irritation in his groin built. He forgot about his brother and helped them get what they were after.

  Later in the shower she said, “That was Ryan on the phone. What’d he want?”

  He told her.

  As she handed him a towel she said, “I’ve got to do some costume repairs for tonight’s show. I’ll go, too.”

  “Fine.”

  “Leave at eleven. Get there about noon.”

  They did.

  Chapter 44

  Rhonda and Bernie were the only ones at The Excelsior in the early afternoon. The temperature was rising so fast he could smell the asphalt of the parking lot as they entered the cool interior of the club.

  “Better find that package first,” she said as she went off to the dressing room.

  He nodded and found it right where Ryan said, in that matchbox of an office. Rhonda came in as Bernie put the banker’s box on the desk.

  “That’s it, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good, now you can get something out of the car for me.”

  They went to the shady side of the gentlemen’s club where they parked the Olds.

  “It’s in the trunk,” she said.

  He opened it, but didn’t see anything.

  “Way in the back.”

  He leaned in and saw an envelope stuck in a corner. Bernie crawled in and she slammed the lid on him.

  “Hey … not funny.”

  The car started.

  “Rhonda!”

  He gave up screaming as the trip wore on. The ride led to the truck stop in the desert where she slapped his face and tossed him the car keys. The Olds was out of gas, but in less than an hour he was back on the road to LA to find out what went wrong.

  The Excelsior’s sign was out and two squads sat in the parking lot as Bernie cruised by. No sense hanging around. He drove back to Ryan’s house to find more cops and yellow tape. At that point he took Rhonda’s advice and headed back to Chicago and law school at Northwestern.

  When Bernie passed through Durango, the newspaper told the story on page seven. Seems his brother was doing some money laundering and drug smuggling when the feds closed in. Rhonda must have known something, but he couldn’t prove it so he kept his mouth shut. What was he supposed to say anyway? He’d been screwing his brother’s wife and she saved his ass. There was a debt in there someplace, but he wasn’t sure who would collect.

  He went back to see Ryan once or twice, but never ran into Rhonda. Ryan knew somebody tipped the feds off about the money or the drugs, but he didn’t know who. Bernie bought the Olds to help pay Ryan’s lawyers, and kept his own head down at school.

  Chapter 45

  It was dark. Where was he? “Oh God,” Bernie groaned as he came tossing out of an erratic sleep. A hand touched his right shoulder and Rhonda said, “What’s the matter?” her voice full of sleep.

  Oh yeah, the Samoan, the box, the fights, the pain. It came back through the fog. He put a hand to his head. “Everything hurts.” His muscles ached. His head pounded.

  “Hold on, hold on. I’ve got something,” she said as she fumbled in the dark.

  “Wait, I’ve gotta take a leak.”

  She helped him out of bed and into the john. He gritted his teeth at the burning in his dick as he pissed blood. He remembered his fight with Rudolph. The light in the hall made his eyeballs ache. It was everything they could do to get him back to the bed.

  He opened a lid to see her silhouette in the doorway. Some water ran as he doubled up in the bed. The roaring in his head distracted him until she pushed a three-quarters filled glass of water into his hand.

  “Take these.” She slipped two capsules into his hand.

  “What are they?” he asked.

  “Pain killers.”

  “Where’d you get’em?”

  “A doctor gave them to me when I injured myself in LA.”

  He sat up long enough to swallow the capsules, hand her the glass then fell back on his pillow. He rolled into a fetal position and hoped her stuff would kick in. She got into bed and slid up behind him. He shook with the pain as she held on. Just before the drugs took effect, he realized they were naked. Seconds later he slept.

  Bernie remembered waking up during the daylight and getting more pills. She told him she was going out as he slipped back under. Another time at night he was able to make his way to the john and back. She sat on the bed and stared at him.

  “I could have helped.”

  “It’s been a long time since a woman got me out of bed to take a whizz. Until yesterday, that is.” He grinned. “I gotta get back on my own with that.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better, but tell the NFL I won’t be playing this weekend.”

  She smiled in the oversized T-shirt she wore.

  “How about some more of those pills?”

  “Those things can hook you. I’ve got something different.” She bent and dug in a paper bag on the floor. She handed him four.

  “What are these for?”

  “They’ll take the inflammation down.”

  He swallowed them. “I’ve got more inflammation than four lousy pills can handle.”

  “Shut up, and get in bed.”

  She held him until he slept. He heard her go out when it was light, but he dozed off again. He woke later feeling crappy, but mobile.

  Chapter 46

  Knickerbocker Smith raised his right hand to touch the wound and a bolt of pain shot down his back and up his arm from where he’d been slugged in the kidneys. “Awww,” he groaned and dropped his head, hitting the spigot on the sink. He collapsed on the turquoise tile floor. “God damn.” Who the hell was that mad man with Rhonda? What a maniac. There was payback coming.

  In his room at the Howard Johnson’s, Nick examined his reflection in the mirror. The condensation from the hot water in the sink gave him a foggy appearance, which was exactly how he felt. The triangular scab on his forehead made him look like an extra in an Ed Burns movie. Hmm, maybe he could use that in his next one reeler. Anyway, it stung like a son-of-a-bitch.

  The
trail from the bathroom to his bed seemed long and arduous. He popped two pills from a glass bottle and stretched out. Thank god for Mexican pharmacists. While his pain subsided and sleep crept in, he realized that both he and Rhonda knew that the box was in the control of that degenerate old man in the apartment. That was good news.

  Chapter 47

  The hot water rolled over Bernie’s aching head, down his bruised shoulders and over his scrapped knuckles into the enameled tub. The familiar carbolic fragrance of Lifebuoy soap reassured him. The water felt good, but he was still sore as hell. The phone in the bedroom rang.

  While toweling off, he walked to the phone and jammed his foot on a leg of the bed. “God Damn It!” He grabbed his right toes and fell on the bed as the phone stopped jangling. He didn’t care who called as he rubbed the offended body parts. The phone rang again.

  “What the hell do you want?” he answered.

  “Good afternoon to you too, Sunshine,” Rhonda said.

  “Oh … sorry. Things aren’t going well right now. I’m still pretty messed up.” He was irritated that she wasn’t with him.

  “Well, take some aspirin and get over here. Things are popping.”

  Things that let him lie quietly in his bed were at the top of his list. Things that popped weren’t. “Like what?”

  “Leon and Stan are back at the apartment.”

  That was interesting. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the pay phone next to the tennis courts at Hart Park,” she said.

  He sighed. “Give me a couple’a minutes to throw-up and I’ll be on my way.”

  Forty-five minutes later he staggered out of his Olds 88 and up to a large elm tree where she stood with a pair of binoculars. She wore jeans, a Peter Max T-shirt, and some black, Converse hi-tops. She smelled spectacular. He didn’t know what that fragrance was, but he loved it. No attempt had been made to cover the bruise that ran up the left side of her face from her jaw to just under her eye or the one on her upper right arm.

  He reached up slowly to touch her face. She leaned away from him. “Bet that hurts,” he said.

  “Bet you’re right.” She straightened up and blocked his hand. “Let’s get to work.”

  Bernie didn’t have the energy to butter her up just then. “What’s going on?”

  With care she put the glasses up to her face. “Someone who looks like the dead guy from Nana’s storage locker rolled up in that piece-of-shit Chevy. He went inside just before I called you. About ten minutes ago he and the old guy came out and got our box out of the trunk.” She took the glasses down. “You should have seen it.” She began to laugh then cut herself short, winced and clutched her ribs. “Oh, nuts!” She smiled. “Looked like something out of the Three Stooges. Anyway, they’re inside.”

  Rhonda and Bernie parked the Olds in front of the building, then made their way up the stairs to 2A. From the screaming match going on inside, they need not have cared about what little stealth they used. The hall still smelled of mildew and garlic. The door was back up, but looked unconvincing.

  “What do you mean you don’t have any tools?” Stan asked.

  “What do you think this place is a fucking machine shop?” Leon replied.

  “I’ll shoot the lock off.”

  “That pea shooter won’t do shit.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Go out and get some tools.”

  “Right, and while I’m gone, you take the box and run.”

  “Don’t you trust your own dad?”

  “No, you old fuck. You sent Ollie over to the storage yard and look what happened to him.”

  “If you think I had anything to do with him getting croaked, you’re dumber than a bucket of turds.”

  “Well, I’m smart enough not to leave you here alone with this box.”

  “Screw off, we’ll go together.”

  Bernie pulled Rhonda to the side of the door away from the stairway. Adrenalin began to mask his pain. Leon limped out of the door then stopped and turned back. Either he hadn’t changed from the faded green T-shirt and cutoff green shorts he wore yesterday or he owned a matching set. Leon saw the couple in the hall and stopped. When Stan stepped out Bernie pushed him back into the room and pulled the door closed.

  “Gun!” the old guy said and made a break toward the stairs.

  Chapter 48

  Leon bolted down the hall with Rhonda in hot pursuit. He was at the top of the stairs when she tackled him around the ankles. They went down. He struggled to get away. “Let me go!”

  The harder the old man struggled the tighter Rhonda held on. He pulled one foot free and suddenly he was standing over her. She lay there on the carpet holding a prosthetic left leg while the old fart hopped down the stairs.

  Leon was good at getting around without his false leg and made it to the bottom as Rhonda started her run from the second floor. She carried the leg. He made it out the door and onto the stoop before she tackled him around the midsection. The breath went out of him as they hit the sidewalk and the prostheses rolled out on the lawn.

  “Now stay down!” she gasped.

  As she sat on top of the geezer and caught her breath, she saw a man run north from behind the building.

  “Le’ go,” the geezer said as Rhonda pulled him to his foot.

  “Shut up, you coot!” She grabbed her quarry’s wrist and threw on a come-a-long hold she had picked up from an admiring bouncer in LA. Moments later she loaded the old man into the Oldsmobile, which was easy with the top down.

  “My leg,” the old man yelled from the back seat.

  She tossed it in the front, then pealed out 72nd Street toward State.

  Chapter 49

  Bernie yanked the door as Rhonda disappeared down the stairs. “Damn!” It was locked.

  He rammed his shoulder into the door. The cheap wood resisted, but gave. He hit it again and it buckled. His shoulder screamed, so he kicked the door next to the lock and it gave way completely. Bernie pushed through the broken door.

  Stan sat on the open windowsill with an olive green, metal box next to him and a tin can in his hand. He pushed the box out, threw the can at Bernie then jumped. From the window Bernie saw Stan picked himself off the soggy grass and high-tailed-it toward State Street with the steel box cradled in his arms.

  Bernie picked up a tomato soup can from the counter and pitched it out the window at the fleeing man. He missed. Stan stopped, put the box down, gave Bernie the finger, then picked the box up and resumed his getaway. He looked too skinny in the yellowed wife-beater to carry the box very far, but he ran with determination, if not great speed. Rather than follow him directly, Bernie ran down the north stairs. Bursting out the back door, he saw the guy crossing the railroad tracks and gave pursuit through the high, wet grass.

  Driving the Olds, Rhonda caught up to Bernie beside the supermarket parking lot on the other side of State Street. She genuflected a stop. “Get in.”

  He leapt over the door and into the passenger seat. “Turn left.”

  Stan held the steel box as he trotted west on St. Charles at an ever slower pace. He picked it up in response to the squeal of the 88’s tires when Rhonda made the corner. She pulled the car level with Stan just as he was about to turn into a yard. Bernie swung Leon’s prosthetic leg and knocked Stan flat. The car screeched to a halt and the couple piled out to retrieve their quarry.

  “Go, go!” Rhonda ran around the front of the car.

  “What did you do to my son, you mother fuckers?” the one-legged geezer hollered from the backseat.

  Stan lay panting on the sidewalk, exhausted from his run, but conscious. He had an odor about him that reminded Bernie of a T-shirt Rick DeGraves had worn to football practice for three months without washing it. They hoisted Stan to his feet and dragged him to the back of the car. Bernie opened the trunk and tossed him in.

  “You do that like you’ve practiced,” Rhonda said.

  Bernie took a deep breath and straightened up. “J
ust from the inside.”

  She smiled. “So you remember.”

  He walked back to the place where Stan dropped the steel box. As Bernie picked it up and turned toward the car, a scratchy female voice said, “Hey, what’s going on?”

  He looked up at an old woman with very boney knees in blue slippers and a short house coat. He locked eyes with her. “He stole the poor box from St. Jude’s.”

  “Then, screw the bastard,” she said around the cigarette that dangled from the left side of her mouth.

  Back in the car, Rhonda asked, “What are we going to do with these guys?”

  “Back to the apartment,” Bernie said.

  Moments later she dragged Leon from the car to a seat on the curb. Bernie opened the trunk to find his prisoner pointing a small automatic pistol at him.

  “Back up,” Stan said.

  As the man knelt in the truck, Bernie slammed the lid. Stan collapsed and the pistol clattered to the pavement. Bernie glanced at Rhonda. “Don’t want to make that mistake again.” Bernie stuck the gun in the back pocket of his jeans. They dragged Stan out of the trunk and tossed him on the grass next to his one legged father.

  Rhonda looked at the cataleptic wrecks. “They really do look like the guy we found in the storage shed.”

  Bernie bent down to take a close look. Panting he turned to the one-legged geezer. “There’s a family resemblance.”

  “He’s my son, Stan,” the geezer said.

  “And, the other …?”

  “His twin.”

  Bernie stood. “Stan and Ollie?”

  The un-shaven amputee raised himself on his elbows. “What can I say, my wife liked a good laugh.”

  “I bet she did,” Rhonda said. “Let’s get outta here.”

  “Where you goin’ with that box?” he asked.

  “None of your damn business.” She pulled away from the curb.

  “Hey, my leg!”

  Bernie tossed it out of the car as they turned the corner from 72nd onto Chestnut.